Inflammation

"Quella fiamma che m'accende
Flames within me fiercely burning
Piace tanto all'alma mia

So alight my fading spirit
Che giammai s'estinguera

That it never more shall die."
-Quella Fiamma, Francesco Conti (1681-1732)

I could explode, know I could, wish I would. It would be so easy, so easy to explode. All the pressure would be released in one fiery iridescent explosion, spraying the world with tattered math worksheets and singed resumes. By the light of the flickering firework that once was Laura, they would read the paper remnants of a soul that once was Laura's. And then they would say, "Look, now I understand. Now I can see what happens when we hold a girl to all our unrealistic expectations."

Because then she holds herself to them, ingests these toxic chemicals. Then come the sparks. Because then there comes a time when she just can't hold them to herself. She just can't hold them inside herself anymore. Then come the flames.

Don't give me anything else to care about. Don't you dare even try to give me something else I can love, passionate and unrequited. Not another beautiful disaster I can watch with a satirical smile as it runs away with tattered pieces of my soul. I am full, too full. Why do you not see? Can you not see I'm tearing, straining at the seams like my swollen backpack? But no one sees my swollen heart, bursting, breaking at the force of more than it can ever hold. Though you do not see, then comes the explosion. For every action, there should be an equal and opposite reaction. But there is not. I love alone. I am too full, but oh, I am so empty. Then comes the aftershock. Empty. Empty. Empty. empty.